


Heavy-Duty

by Slyboots



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Cowgirl Position, Dominant Bottom, Hate Sex, Id Fic, Jealousy, M/M, Open Relationships, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Exchange, Psychic Bond, Rough Oral Sex, Size Kink, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Valve Fingering (Transformers)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23255080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slyboots/pseuds/Slyboots
Summary: “Don’t get kinky on me, Breakdown. I know what you’re into."Breakdown is a popular mech.
Relationships: Breakdown/Drag Strip, background Breakdown/Knock Out
Comments: 11
Kudos: 38





	Heavy-Duty

**Author's Note:**

> Fanfiction means never having to explain yourself.

“We’re just buddies, ‘s all. Helping each other out.”

The repair bay was scarce large enough for two. Swindle had guaranteed them two breems alone--three if they were lucky.

“Hey, I’m not stupid. I know you got that slick little conjunx back on Velocitron--”

“Vos,” growled Breakdown.

“--but hey, what happens in Kaon stays in Kaon, right, pal? No strings attached. Ol’ ball and chain don’t have to know nothing.”

Drag Strip radiated sickly heat. Cy-garette smoke peeled out, damp and blue, from his hissing vents. His Spark pulsed hot and frantic, battering at his chestplate, and Breakdown’s Spark thrummed in time.

Their chassises steamed, still hot from battle; still their engines purred, revved-up. Breakdown’s fingers curled, digging into greasy palms. He’d feel every dent later, and curse through clenched jaws--

Still he was too drunk on war. His plating crackled with charge.

“Besides, Breaks. When you think about it.” Drag Strip sidled around the workbench, closing the space between them. The cy-garette dangled from his thin lips, its glow as hot as his visor. “We’re practically one mech. It’s just like self-service.”

Breakdown vented hard, tasting smoke and engine oil, tasting salt and condensate and Energon from his bitten lip. A moment, just a moment to think, clear-headed--

His fists clenched. Unclenched, palms wet with condensate. At this distance he felt Drag Strip’s engine thrum, his own armor rattling. Drag Strip’s engine, which never seemed to still--

“Keep running your synth,” he growled, mouth oddly dry. “I oughtta put you in the scrapyard--”

Drag Strip snickered. Through his visor his gaze was unreadable. “Yeah, yeah. One of these days.” His engine whirred, the air thick with his charge.

Breakdown licked his lips. “Deal was, I overload your system. You overload mine.”

“Don’t tell me you’re backing out,” whined Drag Strip, knocking the buildup from his cy-garette. With a click of pistons he dropped to one knee. “Have a little fun, Breaks. You could be offline tomorrow--”

His exhaust, salty-sweet in the repair bay’s close air, warmed Breakdown’s plating. Drag Strip ran a fingertip down a deep seam in Breakdown’s hip. Brushed his thumb roughly over Breakdown’s indicators; centimeters away, beneath Breakdown’s plate, bare terminals came online with a heady buzz. As metal met metal, a spark snapped. Drag Strip’s visor flickered.

“Scrap. That hurt. You must be  _ real _ overcharged.”

Breakdown gritted his dentae, biting off a groan. “No talking, no feelings, no weird stuff.”

Though really it was all  _ weird stuff _ . Drag Strip’s Spark hummed, a crystalline eerie hum; at this distance Breakdown could scarce tell it from his own, could scarcely pick the hot crackle of Drag Strip’s overcharge from his own groans of desire--

_ We’re practically one mech _ .

A joor ago they’d moved as one, their fiber optics firing in slick synchrony. A joor ago he’d felt Drag Strip exultant, bullets singing in their audials, winging off Menasor’s armor--

He’d agreed after the skirmish. They’d been pent-up, restless. It’d seemed logical then, in his battle-hazed mind. Already, combined, they’d been as intimate as lovers.

_ Or more intimate _ .

“Just plain old interface.” Drag Strip slid a thumb into Breakdown’s seam, shoving his plating back; it resisted, metal catching on mesh, and impatiently Drag Strip tugged at it. Breakdown’s servos whirred, hot with friction; he growled, synthesizer buzzing. “Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. Just like dumping excess charge. You got it, old buddy.” 

Breakdown’s plating snapped back, scraping over itself. His biolights flickered, golden pinpricks reflected in Drag Strip’s visor.

Adrenaline sweetened pain, made it exquisite. Breakdown grunted, involuntarily leaning in.

“See? You like that.” Drag Strip nuzzled Breakdown’s thigh. “How many vorns’s it been, Breaks? Seven? Eight?”

Breakdown’s inductor slid out by degrees, languidly, its ridges already slick with conductant. As Drag Strip’s exhaust condensed on his mesh, a hot electric prickle raced through Breakdown. Drag Strip’s arousal he tasted clearly, electricity fizzing on his glossa, dancing across their armor. His sensors were alive with it. Beneath Breakdown’s jack-plate his terminals chattered, coming online with a flurry of little jolts.

His fists shook at his sides.

Combat always revved up his engine; still he was overclocked, venting heat, his sensors prickling, his hydraulic lines fit to burst. Itching to grapple, to wrestle--

“How ‘bout I mute your synth?” he growled. “Don’t need it to suck, do you?”

Drag Strip’s visor blazed--

\--but he cackled, not in the least offended. “Don’t get kinky on me, Breakdown. I know what you’re into. What’s the word--”

He slipped, synthesizer crackling, into rapid Velocitronian. His accent soured it, made it vulgar.

“-- _ racer chaser-- _ ”

And it’d been vulgar enough already. The air between them crackled. Drag Strip’s overcharge flooded his processor, overwhelming every channel.

“You like taking orders from pretty little speed-freaks like me, don’cha, Breakdown?” Drag Strip eyed his inductor appraisingly, grinning around his cy-garette. “You ain’t so tough. Look at you. All that excitement and you ain’t even hard.”

Breakdown’s inductor twitched, only half-erect. At its base his conductant sacs pulsed lazily, reserve lines pumping; a bead of conductant dribbled from its tip, spattering the greasy concrete.

Breakdown squirmed under Drag Strip’s unblinking gaze. Still he kept his voice gruffly level, swallowing a groan, his jack-plate uncomfortably warm. “You couldn’t  _ handle _ all of me, little mech.”

And truth was, he’d missed the verbal sparring--the easy banter, the one-upping--as much as the physical.

A millennium ago he’d have winced, pulled his plate back, shoved Drag Strip to the ground and stalked away. But they were soldiers now, and he’d heard worse--

Breakdown cracked a wary grin, reaching for the base of his inductor. “Don’t feel like telling Sarge I broke your back and blew your tires out, Drag.”

Unspoken:  _ you screw with me, I screw with you _ .

Drag Strip swatted his hand away, cy-garette sparking and spitting between his fingers. “Handle  _ this _ , Army-surplus.”

He leaned in, too fast for Breakdown to react, sliding his hot mouth over Breakdown’s inductor. His glossa swirled over the ridges, working round the tip; his free hand closed on the base, fingers probing the soft-swollen conductant sacs.

Current roared up Breakdown’s fiber optics. He felt Drag Strip’s glossa in his whole body, the heat of it, the aggression--the hunger--

Drag Strip’s dentae brushed an aching node, making Breakdown jump and growl. Drag Strip smirked, cupping Breakdown’s hip with his other hand, his fingers scraping long gouges into Breakdown’s dingy wax.

Breakdown reached for his pauldrons, hands shaking. “C’mon, you cocky little--”

Drag Strip shrugged them off. With every lick a little more of Breakdown’s inductor vanished into his mouth. His mouth’s mesh, delicate and yielding, brushed Breakdown’s nodes sweetly; his lips worked over ridges, closing warm and tight on the terminals.

And there was something addictive about seeing his inductor disappear, about thrusting deeper every klik, about Drag Strip’s relish--

\-- _ feeling, hot and heady on the air, the ache in Drag Strip’s jaw-- _

_ \--feeling his own inductor warm and heavy in his mouth, tasting raw metal through its worn finish, smelling his purring engine through his mesh, savoring it-- _

For all his swagger, Drag Strip wanted this.

_ \--to ride Breakdown’s huge inductor, stretching his interface port aching-wide, grinding delicate racer-mesh against Breakdown’s conductant sacs-- _

He’d been planning this, perhaps, for quartexes. 

_ Yeah, Drag. Just buddies helping each other out. You’re not as slick as you think. _

With a series of soft hisses Breakdown’s inductor telescoped forward, the tip straining against the back of Drag Strip’s hot mouth. Drag Strip sank back, mesh clinking, his fingertips working over Breakdown’s inductor as it slid free.

“You like it rough, huh?” Breakdown vented hard, his terminals buzzing, his processor swimming. Under its plate his jack throbbed, leaking turquoise lubricant through his seams and over Drag Strip’s fingers. “Give up yet?”

Drag Strip’s visor blazed. He sucked Breakdown’s lubricant from his fingers, lips smacking. “Am I good, or am I good, Breaks?”

He could’ve smashed Drag Strip’s faceplate for that. The bearings it took--

Breakdown chuckled weakly. His synthesizer crackled to life, choked with desire, before he could stop it. “For a beginner.”

Drag Strip’s face contorted. Smeared with Breakdown’s lubricant, smudged with grease where his chassis had touched the concrete, he looked crazed--willing, perhaps, to do anything--

His plate hissed smoothly back, his lavender biolights winking in the dark. Into the humming air his terminals dumped charge.

“Get on the bench.” His voice was wire-taut. Drag Strip jerked his head, indicating. “Keep that thing out.” His visor pulsed. “Don’t touch it.”

And there was real anger there, sharp as the crackle in the air.

“Hey. Easy.” Breakdown vented slowly, forcing down the roar in his chest. “We don’t have to do this. I can finish myself off, no problem.”

He’d so often talked Drag Strip down. Not tonight--rage and arousal whirled blazing-fast in Drag Strip’s motor, inseparable, and through their neural link Breakdown shivered with the heat--

Drag Strip’s voice was all ice. “Get on the  _ bench _ , numb-nodes.”

Breakdown backed up slowly, lubricant running in hot trickles down his thigh seams.

“Lie down,” said Drag Strip through gritted dentae. “Move it. We’re on a tight schedule.”

The repair bench was tilted back, a slab of chill metal occupying most of the repair bay. Above it a tangle of chains--thick as Drag Strip’s arm, sturdy enough to suspend a military-caste--dangled from the low ceiling, swaying gently as the bay rattled; at either side carts held evil-looking pliers, clamps, jumper cables.

But in desperate times anything would do.

“Check the cart.” Breakdown had some experience with repair bays. “Should be some synthlube--not made for interface, but it’ll work fine--”

Drag Strip growled. “What, do you need it? Can’t stand it.”

Breakdown’s optics half-shuttered; he brushed a finger over the tip of his inductor, spreading thick conductant over its ridges. He bit his lip. “Drag. My inductor barely fits in your  _ mouth _ . You’re not gonna be able to take it all.”

Though his own mesh--he remembered Knock Out’s words with a prickle of affection--was  _ strikingly yielding. _

Odd, incongruous, to remember Knock Out here and now. Breakdown pulled himself back to earth, fingers curling on the edge of the repair bench.

Clumsy as he was quick, Drag Strip clambered onto the table. Between his sleek thighs his biolights glowed, set into fine mesh. (Breakdown had always appreciated racers’ mesh, its links so delicate it was almost soft.) His jack was small and neat, barely a slit in the mesh, just glistening with violet lubricant. Breakdown’s inductor twitched, clicking softly, his conductant sacs contracting.

This close he felt the prickle of charge across Drag Strip’s chassis, the heat of his engine. His inductor strained forward, fully extended now.

“War does something crazy to you, right?” Drag Strip’s voice was almost hoarse. “Really gets you revved up, you know? When we was out there pounding Defensor into hot slag--”

A trickle of lubricant ran down his jack, pooling at the seam where his plating met his exposed mesh. Breakdown groaned, his chemical sensors humming. Drag Strip tasted sharp on the air, but not unpleasant.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Me too.” It was all Breakdown could manage.

With shaking hands Drag Strip pulled back his inductor-plate. His inductor slid out with a hydraulic hiss, its gold plates winking with violet light. As if in a haze he stroked it, flicking the ridges with a thumb still wet with Breakdown’s blue lubricant.

“Pretty,” growled Breakdown. And Drag Strip’s inductor was--slick and deeply ridged, a line of ruby-red nodes pulsating on its shaft. “C’mon, Drag. Let me socket. I always socket for Knock Out--”

A mistake, to say Knock Out’s name.

“What a fraggin’ waste.” Drag Strip’s engine purred; the air around him dumped static, making Breakdown’s chassis tingle.He crawled forward, his free hand on Breakdown’s chest, until the tip of Breakdown’s inductor brushed past Drag Strip’s--making them both jump and groan, in near-unison--and over the soft silicone of his conductant sacs. And then, over his mesh sweet and slick. “Your shiny little conjunx ain’t here. Probably under some slick Seeker, pal.  _ Forget _ Knock Out.”

It was calculated to wound. 

Breakdown set his jaw. Rolled his optics, though he was warming up, venting fast and ragged to dump heat. His hips jerked up, involuntarily, his inductor nudging Drag Strip’s jack, pushing at the slit.  _ Don’t take the bait-- _

“We don’t have to do this.”

“But I’m here,” breathed Drag Strip, his visor alight, condensate gleaming on his chassis. “Right here, right now. We ain’t offline yet. And I’m gonna give you the ride of your lifetime, old pal.”

He leaned back, reaching up. The chains clanked. Pulled tight under Drag Strip’s weight. Drag Strip vented quick and hard, leaning back, his mesh clinking and straining tight--

\--and Breakdown was in, that sweet racer-mesh hot and slick on his inductor. His hips bucked, thrusting, before he could think. His terminals’s chatter picked up into a steady rhythm, urgent and driving.

Drag Strip whimpered--really whimpered. His visor flickered off for a klik. His shoulders rolled back, fists clenching and unclenching on the chain.

Through the roar in his audials, the pounding of his fuel lines, dimly Breakdown felt it: the familiar sensation of being  _ stretched _ , of being forced open, his legs parting to make room--

\--though even on their most desperate nights, when they’d felt perhaps they might blow a fuse, when they’d been helpless and gasping with need, Knock Out  _ never _ went in so hard, so raw--

He was hurting Drag Strip. That he knew immediately.

“Drag--” muttered Breakdown, reaching up through the haze. Finding Drag Strip’s sleek hip, scorching with charge.

Drag Strip gritted his dentae. He slipped down, mesh clinking, hips rolling, down by degrees-- “And  _ away we go _ , buddy.”

Breakdown’s fingers twitched. His hips jerked up, inductor thrusting deep into that sweet warmth.

“Slag--” choked Drag Strip, his visor offlining for one, two, three kliks. His back arched, hips rising and falling; violet lubricant trickled, salty-sour, down Breakdown’s inductor. Sparks fizzed round his terminals. In the dark repair bay he glowed, faintly blue with charge.

His weight drove him down, sinking by centimeters onto Breakdown’s inductor. One by one the ridges caught, pulling his mesh taut.

“Slag,” whispered Drag Strip. “Gonna--gonna ride you like you never--”

Another ridge popped through his port. At the rush of heat Breakdown groaned wordlessly, pushing back, grinding up against him. He could no more have stopped it than he could’ve stopped gravity.

_ \--so big so slagged big so much power-- _

A staticky hash of Drag Strip’s thoughts flooded his processor, more felt than heard. His own jack ached, as if sweetly full--

_ \--ride it ride it out take it all in-- _

_ \--so big _ \--

Drag Strip clutched at the chain, pulling himself up. His jack slid off Breakdown with a squish, releasing ridge after ridge, tingling-wet with his lubricant. As Breakdown’s inductor slipped free, through Drag Strip’s mesh it brushed taut conductant sacs; Drag Strip’s own inductor twitched, and conductant warm with charge spattered Breakdown’s chestplate, glowing searingly bright in the dark.

The connection between them flickered, the signal stuttering. Yet still Breakdown felt the raw ache, hot and uneasy between his legs, the  _ need _ \--

“You okay?” breathed Breakdown. Over the growl of his engine his synthesizer hummed, low and ragged.

“Fine.” Drag Strip bit his lip, faceplate contorting. “Primo. You ain’t so big--”

He reached between his own thighs, spreading his jack, his fingers ghosting over his terminals. (Their ticking picked up, frantic and arrhythmic.) As his fingers slipped inside, he groaned--

\--and drove down, back onto Breakdown’s inductor, stretching himself wide open. His fingers slipped free, dripping with lubricant.

_ \--can ride anything-- _

His rhythm picked up, insistent and driving, his hips rising and falling, rising and falling. With every thrust he grunted, almost animal, all cool disdain gone; condensate glistened on his sleek chestplate, between his seams. He was overheating, his vents working overtime--

Breakdown steadied him with a hand on his hip; Drag Strip slapped it away.

“You like--huh--you like it when I bust your bearings, pal?”

But Breakdown was beyond speech. “Yeah,” he groaned, “yeah-- _ sure _ \--”

“Don’t gimme that slag,” panted Drag Strip, his voice strained. “You like it, bit-brain? You like little guys like me?”

He arched his back, catching the light, all gleaming gold and rich purple. For a klik Breakdown could see the champion he’d been--

\-- _ six-time winner of the Ibex Cup _ \--

\--gasping, whimpering, Breakdown’s inductor stretching his mesh impossibly--

His visor offlined, going dark in his gleaming, transported faceplate. “It’s just--it’s just  _ you and me _ , pal, just you and me here--” His tone was scorching, venomous. “But you see it, don’cha? You’re a  _ great _ audience, buddy--I’m  _ twice _ the fraggin’ racer that little glitch Knock Out ever--”

Drag Strip threw his head back, clutching for dear life at the chains. Breakdown’s inductor was vanishing inside him, for all its size.

His processor fizzed, flooding Breakdown with a mangled hash of sensation, of straining pistons and surging heat, of pressure building in taut conductant sacs--

“-- _ there’s nothing I can’t take-- _ ain’t fraggin’  _ nothing _ \--”

They moved together, pistons firing as one. Breakdown’s back arched; he drove deep, and Drag Strip ground back against him with a whimper and a growl.

And for a klik he could not feel where his body ended, where Drag Strip’s began. For a klik they might’ve been one, Menasor again, on the battlefield or in the berth--

“ _ \--give you the ride of your life _ \--”

“Drag?”

“Yeah?” Drag Strip stuttered. His faceplate glistened with condensate; he bit his lip, visor still offlined. He was, thought Breakdown--the part of him that was still Breakdown alone--beautiful in his vulgarity.

And there was a special pleasure in breaking beautiful things.

“Mute up,” growled Breakdown, driving his inductor home. 

Drag Strip’s terminals sparked, crackling. The air tasted of ozone, of motor oil, of mesh overheated and dripping with lubricant--

Breakdown’s fingertips dug blunt gouges in Drag Strip’s wax. With his other hand he reached between Drag Strip’s slick thighs, stroking his terminals, his fingers tingling with charge--

\-- _ feeling his own terminals rubbed roughly, thick fingers probing round his jack, working him to the point of frenzy-- _

_ \--momentum impossible to stop, impossible even to slow-- _

_ \--the tank-churning inevitability of collision-- _

Drag Strip overloaded with a yell. The force of it hit Breakdown like a shockwave, screaming through his fiber optics. Drag Strip’s jack clenched, searing with current. His inductor jerked, ruby-red nodes blazing, conductant spilling hot and electric onto Breakdown’s chestplate.

And Breakdown’s own HUD went white, too, for a klik, with the echo of Drag Strip’s overload.

He vented hard. Slowed his motor.

Drag Strip’s synthesizer was spewing something slurred and garbled, wet with static. He vented, that engine that’d shrieked to victory in the Ibex Cup now slowing to a numb roar. Hands shaking, visor flickering, pulling himself back off Breakdown’s still-erect inductor--

Breakdown reached between them. Pulled himself free. His inductor dislodged from Drag Strip’s mesh with a slick pop. Beads of blue conductant mingled with lavender lubricant, pumping freely from the slit.

It was achingly sensitive still, and heavy in his hand.

Drag Strip eyed it with something approaching disbelief. Already his terminals had dumped much of their charge, his conductant sacs deflating; conductant and lubricant ran in filthy rivulets down his inner thighs.

“You done?” rumbled Breakdown. “I can finish myself off.”

“I’m--” Drag Strip shook his head, venting raggedly, sinking back onto the berth between Breakdown’s parted legs. “Hey, I think I got another round in me. Just gimme a cycle.”

Breakdown grunted, running a thumb slick with lubricant over his inductor, bucking into his palm. “If you can’t take it, little mech, you can’t take it--”

Drag Strip’s visor blazed to life. He lunged forward, knocking Breakdown’s hand aside.

“Take  _ this _ .”

Breakdown’s inductor vanished into his mouth, his glossa working round the ridges in lingering swirls. Lubricant dribbled over his lips, running in glowing rivulets down his chin, spattering his chestplate.

\-- _ so pretty-- _

A low raw groan escaped Breakdown. “Drag--”

Drag Strip’s visor gleamed. Around Breakdown’s inductor he spat something that sounded very much like “ _ Mute it _ ,” lubricant gleaming on his mouth.

With one hand, easy as anything, he pushed Breakdown back against the slab. With the other he stroked Breakdown’s jack, teasing it rough and furious. Current arced from Breakdown’s terminals across his hand. As one they grunted, gasping.

_ \--racer chaser-- _

\-- _ gonna give you the ride of your lifetime, pal _ \--

Breakdown’s jack ached, wet and yielding. With a soft pop he felt another finger slide inside, then another; a hot tingle raced across his mesh. He ground down, thrusting, spreading his legs half-involuntarily. Drinking up the anger in Drag Strip’s gaze.

He bit his glossa, groaning. Drag Strip’s hand, so light on his hip, feeling like an iron fetter--

Yes. Yes, he would submit to this. Yes, this was natural.

Breakdown cursed. Moaned. Whimpered, half-blind with desire. His thighs twitched; his jack clenched. His fingers dug deep into the cold iron of the slab, metal screeching on metal. “Scrap, Drag--”

Drag Strip spat out his inductor, his visor wild, his face a mess of lubricant and conductant. “Will you just fragging  _ finish _ , you big lunk--”

And in it he heard-- _ felt _ \--thoughts as bright and hot as his arousal.  _ Are you this slagged slow with your conjunx, huh? _

_ What, you don’t like me? _

Drag Strip’s fingertips probed fast and frantic, working rhythmically, pressing against his conductant sacs through his aching mesh.

_ Think you’re too fragging good for me? _

It was the contempt that pushed him over. For a klik he could not see, could not hear. The roaring in his audials, the hot pressure between his thighs, was the whole world. He bucked against Drag Strip’s hand, groaning, his jaw clenching, as his conductant sacs released.

The air smelt of ozone, of fresh charge. He was lying, engine sputtering, spattered in conductant. Between his thighs Drag Strip knelt, his face twisted with disgust.

“Took you long enough.”

“Yeah.” Breakdown vented hard, optics flickering, tasting motor oil and salt on the air. He could, he felt for a klik, lie there forever. “Wore you out, right?”

“Get slagged.” Drag Strip’s plates clicked closed, lubricant dribbling through the seams. He dropped, still unsteady, from the slab. “Move your aft before somebody finds us.”

With a tremendous hollow groan, Breakdown hauled himself upright. Still his jack ached, feeling suddenly empty; reluctantly he pushed his limp inductor back. “Washracks?”

“I don’t give a scrap what you do,  _ buddy _ .”

He reached mentally for Drag Strip. The silence between them was cold as an iron wall, and as impenetrable.

So rarely had he been  _ pushed away _ after interfacing.

Though their engines had warmed the air, the condensation on Breakdown’s chassis felt eerily cold.

They showered in a deserted washrack, in some half-forgotten block of Sector D. The steaming solvent thundered over Breakdown’s chassis, pounding out the aches in his pistons. He relaxed into it, optics flickering on and off. “You want me to get your back, Drag?”

“You always this much of an aft-kisser, or you falling in love with me?” Drag Strip smirked a little now; Breakdown felt his shoulders unknot at the sight. “Sorry, Breaks. I’m conjugated to the racetrack. And you’re actually conjugated.”

“Only mech good enough for you is your own reflection, huh?”

Their lubricant mingled, pouring off their bodies, bright streaks swirling down the drain.

They might’ve been friends, real friends, their banter easy. He moved for a klik to nudge Drag Strip’s shoulder--

\--but the air between them was unsettled, crackling with charge. Drag Strip radiated unease, moving stiff and quick, working the rag furiously between his plates.

“Hey, I don’t need love and kisses--” Breakdown tried.

“Kiss my exhaust port,” snapped Drag Strip. Through the first volley of the war he’d kept his paint pristine. (He’d stolen Dead End’s wax a quartex ago, Breakdown remembered, and there’d been a row.) How incongruous, to see the marks of Breakdown’s fingers on his hips. Breakdown was seized with the urge to buff them away--

“You blow your exhaust outta your mouth anyway, Drag,” he growled instead, low and exhausted. His processor reeled in the heat, at the acrid smell of the solvent. “Anyway, I needed that. You were pretty good. Thanks.”

He’d known it would provoke a reaction, counted on it. The air around Drag Strip fizzled. “I’m the best linkup you’re ever gonna  _ have _ , numb-nodes.” His dentae flashed, perfectly white. “Maybe the war’s making me crazy. I interfaced with  _ you _ .”

Breakdown winced--but the anger was easier than the cool disdain. “We’re buddies, right? Helping each other out?”

“I’m doing you a  _ favor _ , Army-surplus.” Breakdown’s conductant dripped still over Drag Strip’s sleek thighs, pooling on the chipped tile. “You’re so quick to ditch your prissy conjunx for me--”

Breakdown chuckled, low and empty. Wishing more than anything for the stability of Knock Out’s arms. “Drag. I’m not ditching anybody.”

Drag Strip cocked his head, his visor dimming, solvent steaming off him. “What, did I blow your processor? Breaks, old buddy, I knew you were dumb, but--”

There it was. He leaned back into the stream of solvent, fingers unclenching, letting it thunder through his vents. The battlefield dust rolled off him now, staining the solvent a ghostly gray. He smelled iron filings, felt his chassis vibrating with a dull roar. “Knock Out and I have an agreement. Since way back. Woulda told you, but I thought you knew.”

_ Or that you didn’t care. _

Drag Strip’s synthesizer stuttered. His shoulders drew together; abruptly he looked hunted, worn down. “No. No. You can’t, dammit--I  _ won _ \--I  _ beat _ him--”

He’d feel guilty, he knew, the next time they combined. Yet he watched Drag Strip shiver with detached pity. “C’mon. Lemme get your back.”

“You’re nothing, Breakdown,” spat Drag Strip. “You ain’t slag. Just a big slow  _ moron _ sucking on the chief’s tailpipe--” He glanced round, shuddering, hands balling into fists. With a wordless snarl Drag Strip darted, still dripping solvent, from the washracks.

Breakdown leaned back against the wall, venting hard, feeling more drained now than from a quartex of war. There’d be a reckoning for this, he knew, in the hazy future--

The first ping he sent to Drag Strip: “Sorry.”

It bounced, unopened.

_ Deserved that, I suppose _ .

Breakdown groaned, closing his optics. The second ping went out, clear as a bell in his mind. “You were right: Drag Strip hasn’t got a patch on you.”

The reply was almost instant, crackling with indignation. “Didn’t he treat you right? That malfunction. Crack his brainpan for me, Breakdown.”

Wearily Breakdown smiled. “Hey. He might be an arrogant little glitch, but Drag Strip’s a friend of mine.”

Knock Out’s voice buzzed over the connection. “With friends like these--”

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this during the COVID-19 quarantine to unstick my brain.
> 
> This fic is technically completely consistent with the Partners timeline (particularly Breakdown and Drag Strip's dynamic in Squaddies), but probably didn't "really" happen in that timeline.
> 
> Technically this fic is complete, but may add some additional chapters with other pairings.


End file.
